


Having Traveled All Roads

by Megkips



Category: Mesopotamian Mythology, The Epic of Gilgamesh
Genre: Fallen Kings, Gen, Playing with sources
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megkips/pseuds/Megkips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of Gilgamesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Having Traveled All Roads

Dreams are not new for Gilgamesh. They have come to him since he has been a child, all portents of what the future held, messages from the gods revealing their plans. Not being able to tell the difference between dreams and reality is, however, new.

He blames the fever, blames the doctors’ inability to cure him, blames the one-third of himself that could even subcome to illness. Gilgamesh knows exactly who he must look like right now, and that no one had said anything on the matter is the only blessing in the situation. 

To draw in a breath of air is pain, to exhale is excruciating. The humiliation that even such a basic act makes him wish to cry out is beyond articulation, and that it cannot be expressed is a perverse relief. Shamhat looks down at him from her perch on the deathbed and shakes her head at the ragged breathing.

“Close your eyes,” she suggests, playing with the fraying end of one of the blankets that rest at the end of the bed. They’ve been thrown on and off so many times that there’s no point to keeping them neatly folded and waiting.

A strained, low chuckle responds. “And never open them again?”

“Is being unable to breathe preferable?” Shamhat counters. “Don’t answer that.”

“Five minutes then, to see if it helps.”

“Good.”

Tired eyes close all too quickly, and Gilgamesh finds himself in dreams. This time, he knows it’s a dream, because he stands at the great council of gods. 

Their seats form a circle. On high benches made of lapis lazuli sit the great seven who decree - Anu, Enlil, Ninhursag, Ea, Ishtar, Nanna, Shamash - all dressed in their finest robes, adorned with lapis lazuli, all proud and projecting their endless power. At the low table, crafted out of sacred cedar, the rest of the gods that Sumer holds dear sit, dressed as well as the great seven. For a moment, Gilgamesh catches the eye of the goddess Ninsun, his mother, and all of his fear triples in strength. 

Nerve returns to him, and Gilgamesh looks around the council room with distaste. “In the waking world, I am dying. Is this meeting necessary?” He says it with more confidence than he has, and would pray for the facade to remain longer if the entire room wouldn’t hear the plea. 

“It is,” Anu says, seated at the center of the great seven. “Two-thirds of you must be dealt with before you pass into Irkalla.”

Enlil snorts. The sound shakes the ground beneath Gilgamesh’s feet, the same as Humbaba’s did years past. “I see no need for any special treatment. The one-third outweighs everything, and there is no reason to continue this meeting.”

“No?” Shamash asks, leaning forward on the table so that he can look Enlil in the face. “As childish as it was to kill your beloved forest guardian and make a cedar door for no reason, he has done many praiseworthy deeds since then. Countless steele had been erected to commemorate us gods and great events that have happened in this king’s lifetime, many temples have been built in our honour, and he has gone so far as to reconcile with Ishtar by marrying one of her priestesses. How many rituals have been revived because we have asked him to do so through dreams? All that we have asked has been done. Surely this deserves some consideration.”

“He did these things out of fear, not love,” is Enlil’s response, a cold half-laugh. “It shows now. You need only look at his eyes to confirm it.”

“Try anger,” Gilgamesh snaps, heat searing his throat as he speaks. “Anger at your pettiness, Enlil. Recompense for that action was paid with Enkidu’s death, you have no need to harp upon it now!”

Before Enlil can respond, Ea places a hand on the god’s shoulder, forcing him to remain seated. The water god’s laugh floods the room, and he gives Gilgamesh a beaming smile. “We are petty,” he says with a laugh. “My compatriots here once flooded the world because man was too noisy and they didn’t think to ask for quiet. I would say don’t take Enlil’s anger personally, but it is impossible not to, and I don’t enjoy wasting time on doling out useless advice.”

“Except you just did,” Ishtar murmurs.

“Speaking of that illustrious incident,” Ea continues, turning his smile to Ishtar. “You all made me promise that no man could live forever, after I awarded Utnapishtim and his wife immortality. It’s a fair judgement and one I agree with. But it never took into account those men who have some relation to us. I’d like to know why his mother’s lineage does not save him. She sits in our council now, and has been worshipped for as long as the rest of us.”

“The one third trumps everything,” Anu says. “We’ve been over this.”

“But there are other options,” Nanna adds softly. The moon goddess continues only after she moves some of her hair from her eyes, voice not rising in volume at all. “We can agree that he has improved as a king since his youth, can we not?”

Mutters sound throughout the chamber room.

“Then perhaps we should consider some changes to Irkalla,” she says.

“Yes, before asking me first and assuming that you can change the underworld without my permission,,” comes the gravelly voice of Ereshkigal. “Irkalla is my domain and my home. One of Gugalanna’s - my husband and the Bull of Heaven - murderers is already in my domain. I have no desire to give the other one any sort of power in my house.”

Nanna nods, her myriad of necklaces jangling as she does so. “Your reservations are well founded, Ereshkigal, but please hear me out. Time and again you have said that many fights break out amongst the dead in your realm. You are ignored because they scorn you for your position, and great damages occur to your home. Shamash can only come and help settle the disputes amongst the dead every so often, and you’ve made it clear that this is not enough. Am I correct?”

“You are. Please continue.”

“Then let Gilgamesh, as a ghost, act as governor of the netherworld. Let him be pre-eminent among the ghosts, so that he will pass judgments and render verdicts, and what he says will be as weighty as the words of all of the other gods.” It is not a suggestion. It is a decree, and Ereshkigal bows her head in acceptance. “It will help keep your house in order, and repay the debt for your husband’s death,” Nanna adds. “It accommodates this man’s muddled divinity, but maintains the natural order. That is, unless anyone objects?”

Silence responds to Nanna’s question, and not even Enlil dares to speak out. Gilgamesh’s body slumps without his permission, and a knot forms inside his chest. As the gods stand and disperse, he tries to force his body upright again, struggles to unknot his own heart. The effort is its own kind of pain, different from sickness, and perhaps worse.

A great arm wraps around Gilgamesh’s shoulder, breaking his concentration and holding him in place. “I am sorry I could not help you as I have done in the past,” Shamash says.

“If you can call what you did trying.” Gilgamesh shoves the arm off his shoulder all too readily.

“Your anger is justified.” The response is diplomatic, struggling against condescension.. “But,” Shamash continues. “You should not despair; you should not feel depressed.”

“If you speak of all due rites being carried out to please both my ghost and the gods, stop. It is of no matter to me, and I hope that they all fail as to cause your great council offense.”

Shamash shakes his head. His voice softens, and his great green eyes meet with Gilgamesh’s brown ones. “Gilgamesh. You must have been told that this is what your being a human involves. You must have been told that this is what the cutting of your umbilical cord involved. The darkest day of humans awaits you now. The solitary place of humans awaits you now. The unstoppable flood-wave awaits you now. The unequal struggle awaits you now. The unavoidable battle awaits you now. The evil from which there is no escape awaits you now. But you should not go to the underworld with heart knotted in anger, not like this.”

“Don’t you dare begin to tell me how to feel about--”

“Let me finish,” the god chides. “There will be a road to follow, past the entrance gates and Ereskhigal’s throne room. Piles of crowns rest there, discarded by all the great kings that have come before you. Stay there when you enter, and wait. Your jewel will come to meet you, the one you lost decades ago. The elders of your city will come to meet you, and all others you have known, loved, and seen pass on will come to meet you. The burden you have been given by the gods will be easier with such faces around you. For _this_ reason, you should not despair, and you should not feel depressed.”

Words choke in Gilgamesh’s throat, and Shamash takes the silence as an opportunity to walk away. All of the other gods have gone already, save for Ninsun, and Gilgamesh avoids her gaze, even as she walks over and draws him into a hug. Gilgamesh stands there stiffly in response, arms plastered to his side, barely registering the touch at all.

“I overhead Shamash’s words,” she says softly, one hand combing through her son’s hair. It’s a familiar motion, a calming one, one that finally allows Gilgamesh to hug her back. “He is not lying in order to comfort you. Enkidu will be in Irkalla, waiting for you, as will many others.”

“It doesn’t help.” It is petulant, childish, and Gilgamesh knows it. “I don’t want to--”

“I know,” Ninsun says, and Gilgamesh buries his face in her neck. “I know. I can prolong it just a day or two longer but--”

Gilgamesh’s hands knot in the fabric of his mother’s dress, and he clings to her as he did when he was barely able to walk. “--Please.”

“Then wake up.”

Light floods Gilgamesh’s vision, as does Shamhat’s face.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours,” she says. “You started shivering at one point, so we gave you more blankets.”

“It was dreams making me shiver, not cold. Remove them.”

A servant walks over and begins to do so wordlessly, until the appropriate amount of blankets have been removed and Gilgamesh croaks out, “Enough.” 

The blankets are left at the end of the bed and the servant bows before walking away. Shamhat inspects one carefully, then throws it onto the floor in the laundry pile. “Do I need to interpret whatever dream you just had?”

“No,” Gilgamesh says, “The message was clear. I needed to be reminded of a lesson the gods strove to instill in my head when I was young.”

“Ah,” she responds. There’s a familiar lilt in Shamhat’s voice, and the worried frown mirrors another’s. “And have you mastered the lesson now?”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the [Death of Gilgamesh](http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/section1/tr1813.htm) text. While heavily fragmented, it implied that Gilgamesh goes on after death to be a judge in the underworld. A quick wiki search reveals that [the Sumerian underworld](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghosts_in_Mesopotamian_religions) was home to many disruptive ghosts, so the need actually makes sense.
> 
> Certain sections of this fic are taken from the text itself wholesale. The poetry is one of my favourite things about the text.
> 
> With _huge_ thanks to Mith for helping with the ending and as always, gratitude to Sara for betaing.


End file.
